Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

“What do you want from us?” the Lone Ranger asked.

The marshal stepped deeper into the store, seeking to angle his aim around the Masked Man and place it back on the Indian.

“You and your Injun pal here are wanted for murder, ain’t that right, Beemer?” Beemer nodded like some kind of puppet manipulated to respond to everything its master ordered.

“We did not murder anyone,” Tonto said. He had not moved and the Ranger knew he had figured out the risk was greater for him.

“That so, Injun?” the marshal said. “I beg to differ. Got the body of a young gal lyin’ right out there on the boardwalk that says different. Even got your blanket over her. Got witnesses who saw you with her out there, too.”

“What witnesses?” the Ranger asked, knowing it made no difference, but seeking to stall. He edged forward a step, closing the distance between the two to five feet. The marshal gestured with his gun, stopping him from getting any closer.

“Beemer here saw you kill her, didn’t you, Beemer?”

Beemer nodded again, shifted feet, his level of jitteriness notching upward. The deputy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The Ranger didn’t like the way the man’s finger twitched on the trigger. Not much was keeping him from accidentally blasting a shot.

“Why, it’s plain to see you’re an outlaw,” the fake marshal said. “Wearin’ a mask and everything. Why don’t you just take it off and show us your face.”

“Last person who saw my face took that sight with him to the grave,” the Ranger said. “Man by the name of Butch Cavendish.”

The name plainly startled the fake lawman. His eyes widened and he silently mouthed the name. The reaction puzzled the Ranger, but he took advantage of it. The outlaw’s hesitation was his opportunity. His hand swept to his Peacemakers and the guns came from their holsters in a blur of motion. It was a risk, but a calculated one. Both men were not expecting immediate resistance.

Two shots thundered in the confines of the store. Silver bullets drilled into the gunhand of each man.

The deputy let out a shriek as his weapon flew from his grip and hit the floor a half-dozen feet away. Blood dripped from his hand. Panic flashed across his face and he dove for the weapon.

Tonto sprang to the countertop with the Ranger’s draw. He launched himself into space toward the diving deputy, landed in front of the man. The deputy tried to stop, throw a punch. Tonto’s arm came up, deflected the blow. The Indian snapped a short hook into the deputy’s ribs, spun and followed up with a kick to the chest that sent the man stumbling backward.

On instinct, the deputy snatched a bag of flour from a stack piled next to the shelf, hoisted it, intending to hurl it at the charging Indian.

Tonto doubled, hand sweeping for his knife, straightened again. The blade flashed up, sliced a path through the sack. Flour exploded in a great billowing cloud, coating Tonto and the deputy poised to throw the sack.

The Indian pivoted, planted a foot in the deputy’s middle. The man hurtled backward, still holding the spewing sack, and crashed into a shelf piled with canned goods. He collapsed, the cans raining atop him.

To Tonto’s left, the Ranger spun his guns on his index fingers and jammed them back into their holsters. The bullet had sent the marshal’s pistol skidding out the open shop door and the outlaw stood clutching his mangled hand.

The Lone Ranger pistoned a fist straight into the man’s face. With a spray of blood, the marshal’s nose turned into pulpy mass.

The fake lawman was tough; the Ranger had to give him that much. Despite the fact his hand and face were damaged, he swung a roundhouse left that might have taken off the Ranger’s head had it landed.

The Ranger doubled and the blow whisked over his head. He snapped back upright, launching an up-percut that crashed into the lawdog’s chin that lifted him clean off the floor. The marshal hurtled over a pickle barrel, the barrel toppling over with him, splashing him and floor with brine. He lay there, groaning, uneager to resume the fight.

The Ranger swung his gaze to Tonto, who stood there half-covered with flour.

“You look like a white man,” he said, a slight smile quirking his lips.

“Urm, Kemosabe speak with forked tongue.”

“Someone will have heard the shots. We need to go.”

They left the store, the Ranger first casting a cautious look about. He saw no one, but had the sudden impression they were being watched.

They ran for the alley and their horses. Mounting, he pulled on the reins and slapped his heels against the great horse’s sides.

“Hi-yo, Silver!” he yelled and the stallion bolted from the alley, Tonto close on his heels.

#

She walked into the general store after the Ranger and his savage had left, her gaze taking in the overturned barrel, coating of flour that lay over the floorboards like fresh snow, and her two men. Pathetic sights, they were, each bloodied and struggling to get to their feet. She had half a mind to shoot them and leave them there.

‘“Bout what I expected,” she said, stepping over to a spot near the shelf and retrieving a mangled bullet that lay there. She peered at it, a cold expression on her face. Silver. The Ranger’s bullet. She went to the counter, set the silver bullet next to the copper one lying there, then turned back to her men.

“You’re gawdamned lucky I ain’t got immediate replacements for you two peckerwoods.”

The fake marshal and deputy glanced at each other.

“He was tougher than we thought,” the marshal said, as if it made a difference.

She made a scoffing sound. “Of course he was. You were s’posed to get that Injun. I need him.”

“We tried,” the deputy said, on obvious trembling now gripping his entire body. It was plain the memory of her killing that dove earlier this morning was still fresh in his mind. She almost laughed. He wasn’t long for this gang. Neither was the other, but for now she couldn’t afford the loss of any more men.

“You best see to it the next time I give you a job you do it right.”

Both men nodded, clearly relieved they hadn’t swallowed lead pills.

“Get cleaned up. I want that Injun. I’ve seen enough of the Ranger to know what they write about him ain’t exaggerated. I reckoned he had to be something special to get Butch; wasn’t dumb luck after all.”

“How?” the marshal asked. “Ain’t never seen anyone draw that fast.”

She uttered a lifeless laugh. “Won’t be long ‘fore he comes back. He’ll want to learn more about me and will be a lot more crafty about it next time. They’ll separate. The Injun backs him up. When that happens… you best have a plan, less you got a notion to retire early.”

14

“Whoever we’re dealing with is going to step up their plan now that they got a look at us in action,” the Lone Ranger said, gazing out at the stream that looked like black glass frosted with wavering ribbons of alabaster under the moonlit sky. They’d set up camp a short distance from town, near a stream flanked by boulders and scrub pine. They night was still pleasant and he forewent the luxury of a fire, not wanting to alert the gang as to just where they had holed up. He doubted the leader would attack them outright, but saw no need to take chances.

“Those men… their guns were aimed at me, not you, Kemosabe,” Tonto said. “They want you alive.”

The Lone Ranger nodded. “For the moment. We’re going to have to be more careful, now. I want a parley with that fake marshal, and next time it’ll be on my terms, but for now he can wait. The gang is holed up somewhere in town; I have a notion it’s somewhere in plain sight.”